Iced Mirror
by myshipsank
Summary: "My beauty was a weapon, and he taught me how to load it, aim it, and fire it. I could empty a full cartridge out into an unsuspecting crowd without so much as blinking." Quinn tries to live her life the way she's been taught, but her hearts pulls her in other directions. Faberry.
1. Chapter 1

Looking in the mirror has always been a painful experience for me.

You wouldn't think so. I'm Quinn Fabray, head cheerleader, a shoe-in for prom queen. I used to date the high school quarterback. My life was every little girl's dream. But no, it wasn't childish desires that brought me to where I was now. It wasn't my dream. For a while, I'd convinced myself it was.

It was my father's dream.

Since before I could talk, he was training me how to be a cold-hearted bitch, the future Ice Queen of McKinley. When I was a toddler, he told me to never share my toys unless an adult was watching. When I went to kindergarten, he told me to make sure I did better than everyone else in class and look out for people who were different than me. When I moved on to first and second grade, he taught me how to ostracize someone, to keep a core group of friends close to me. By fifth grade, I was following his instructions on how to make sure I asserted myself to all of the lesser girls in my grade. He told me I was beautiful, yes, and that was as far as the normal fatherly instinct went. He told me that I was beautiful, and as such, deserved to be on top.

When I played sports as a child, second place was never an option. He'd berate coaches to get me a better spot on a team.

When I got to middle school, he started talking about boys. He taught me how to pick out the best kind, the one that was bound to get noticed. If I attached myself to one, he could take me up the social ladder.

My beauty was a weapon, and he taught me how to load it, aim it, and fire it. I could empty a full cartridge out into an unsuspecting crowd without so much as blinking. In other words, I used my gifts of physical beauty and inner intelligence to fight my way tooth and nail to the top, to be in the spotlight.

When I got to high school, I immediately scouted out my surroundings and sorted the people around me into different categories- the ones that could be competition, the kind that I should associate with, the kind I would step on to easily assert myself, the ones I would dissociate with. I could use all of them to bring me higher.

I picked Finn out of the crowd easily- star quarterback- that would be someone to attach myself to, to bring myself up the ladder. I had absolutely no attraction to him, but rather to the idea of him, the idea that he could be a stepping stone to my notoriety. Then there was Santana. She could easily be competition, but she also fit solidly into the kind I would associate with. She flip-flopped categories depending on the day. Or the hour. I handpicked a few more girls, for the majority cheerleaders, to use as a buffer of popularity around me.

I was so good at sorting people, and I knew exactly what to do with them. That is, until I noticed someone on the periphery, someone who started encroaching on my boyfriend's time.

Rachel Berry. She refused to be sorted by my mind. I instinctively put her in the "do not associate" category because, really, argyle? And the Glee club? Two gay dads? And her constant rambling? That was my father's training, an easy placement. But I almost just as quickly filed her under competition. Why? Because she was a diva- amazing voice, intelligent, and, though I didn't dare admit it, gorgeous. And a small part of me, the part that my father had been attempting to squash since my potty training days, wanted to place her in the "associate with" category. Because I was inexplicably drawn to her.

So I had a dilemma. Rachel Berry floated between all three of those categories, though even in my own mind I rarely admitted the last one, and refused to settle down. So instead of forcing a square peg into a round hole, as it were, I drilled a new hole. I created a category just for her.

I singled her out, made her the sole focus of my days at high school. I made her my target, the object of my detestation. She symbolized the exact opposite of me- someone who was self-driven instead of daddy-driven, someone with natural talent instead of carefully planned mediocrity, someone with the freedom to not care what people thought of her.

And she made my job so easy. I ordered slushie facials, stalked her online, left up degrading drawn pictures, had her threatened. I so much as said that she was a freak, and everyone believed me.

If I'm being honest with myself, I knew I wouldn't have to lift a finger to make her life a living hell. Everyone else was already doing that now that I had instigated it. But I continued. I liked thinking of ways to bring her down. Or maybe I was just infuriated that she refused to be placed in a normal category.

On more than one occasion, Santana, my co-bitch sometimes-friend sometimes-rival, would point out that under just slightly different circumstances, it would appear that I was obsessed with Rachel. But she always would snicker immediately after and help me come up with some new assault or insult me anew.

So I continued, and everything was fine until the unsortable girl decided to steal my quarterback boyfriend. I was furious, shaking furious. The nerve she had! I should have instantly created a back-up plan, a plan to get someone better than Finn. After all, he was falling down the social ladder by being in the Glee club and associating with Rachel. I should have, I could have, and if I was the perfectly trained daughter my father thought he'd raise, I would have. But instead, I focused my energy on trying to tear the two of them apart.

I told myself it was to ruin Rachel's life and to win back Finn. I told myself it was all part of the plan. Hell, I told myself those things enough times that I started to believe them. And then their relationship really did go on the rocks, causing him to hurt her. And I was enraged. No one orchestrated any move to hurt Rachel Berry but me.

And so that's how I ended up where I was, staring at my own reflection and wishing I didn't see this icy exterior. Ice was beautiful, but cold and removed, destined to melt after only a short-lived glory. I was afraid that was exactly who I was- a carefully crafted ice sculpture that would melt when really compared to true beauty like a burning star. Like Rachel Berry.

My father may have spent years chiseling me into his perfect Ice Queen, but even he didn't have the strength to melt me into a puddle. That honor belonged only to the infuriating Rachel Berry.

I hated looking at my reflection because my beauty wasn't something I'd been taught was treasured, it was just something to be used. I hated looking at my reflection because I was only what I'd been molded to be, not what I chose to be. I hated looking at my reflection because it reminded me how my heart would never thaw.

I climbed into bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing the answers to my nebulous questions were written there. I hadn't asked any questions, true, but maybe that's because I was afraid of the answers.

Before falling asleep, I thought of Rachel Berry.

I relinquished myself to dreams, and in my worst of nightmares, I stayed just the same as in my waking hours. In the best of my dreams, we tolerated each other. In my darkest fantasies, we are friends. But never, not in any part of my imagination, are we anything more. I can't afford to let that thought enter even my deepest of secrets because that might lead to hope.

And hope was, accordingly to my father, laughable next to working your ass off for success.

* * *

**A/N: This was not planned. I am supposed to be working on "Playing the Game" and "Fireworks" and my Lost Girl fic. I am not supposed to be writing for yet another fandom. But, as most writers know, sometimes an idea will NOT leave you alone until it's on paper (or screen, in this case). This isn't set in any particular episode or anything (I don't think I'm known for sticking to cannon plot lines).**

**I don't know about continuing. Oneshot? For now?**


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning was a Monday. Like most teenagers, I hate Mondays. They are the beginning of a week that is sure to drag on forever and be filled with every reminder that there is such a thing as hell. For me, that reminder starts when I look in the mirror once again.

I avoid the mirror as long as possible, getting dressed and ready without sparing a glance. But then, as the last part of my routine, I need to put on my makeup. Because Russel Fabray surely wouldn't let his daughter leave the house without it.

Upon getting to school, more little reminders that my life was achingly perfect were all around me. My popular friends joining me at my side, even if they talked in such ways that my father would not approve of.

"Hey Q, Lord Tubbington ate San's shoelaces," Brittany greeted me brightly. I gave her a tight-lipped smile, not because I didn't want to hear what she was saying, but just because I couldn't take my eyes off of another distraction down the hall. A distraction that currently tossed dark glossy hair over her shoulder as she opened her locker

I received a punch in the arm, and without looking, said, "Hey, S." She was the only one who could come up to me and do that to me. Santana was quite possibly the only one who understood a fraction of what went on inside my head, though she was often misguided.

"You planning another attack on Manhands?" Santana questioned, noticing who was on the receiving end of my distracted staring.

I had to remind myself of who I was. "Yeah. I'm thinking it's been too long since Berry's gotten a slushie facial," I said with a sneer. The hateful tone came so easily that I almost believed it. It can be easy to buy your own lies.

"Yeah, her skin is looking a little less than fresh," Santana agreed. I couldn't disagree more, of course.

The three of us continued walking down the hall, getting closer to the object of our evil scheming. I spotted Karofsky, who was ever-prepared, and he removed a cherry red slushie from his backpack. God knows he wasn't planning on eating it, so I briefly wondered if he was psychic. He gave me a shit-eating grin before prepping his good throwing arm and tossing the slushie in Rachel's face for a perfect, nailed, shot.

Her face was hardly shocked. In fact, she looked more so resigned than anything else, but at the edge of her eyes I still saw a hint of tears. I gave her a cold smile, one that I had perfected, and kept walking.

I said nothing, no taunt, no insult, because it wasn't needed. This was just another day, just another one of the many attacks I'd orchestrated against her. Santana and Brittany walked on either side of me, and we started toward our respective home rooms.

But, as always, I felt a wave of something closely resembling nausea in the pit of my stomach. This time it was stronger, probably because I'd allowed myself to think far too much the night before. I excused myself from the other two-thirds of the Unholy Trinity and made my way to the bathroom.

Once inside a stall, I simply sat on the toilet and breathed. I had to calm myself down, recreate that image that I strove for. The bathroom was empty, so I didn't have anything to worry about in here.

I thought about the expression Rachel had on her face as she withstood another trial of cruelty. It had been so… expectant. Broken. Like she had come to school that day just waiting for the attack to happen.

I couldn't get much farther in my musings before I heard the sound of footsteps entering the bathroom. I cursed under my breath and told myself that I should be getting to class anyway instead of hiding out in the bathroom. I flushed the toilet and pushed open the stall door, heading over to the sink.

I froze before turning the faucet. The girl who had entered the bathroom was none other than Rachel Berry.

The slushie had really done a number on her. She had red mush on her face, in her hair, and dripping down the front of her shirt. She also had a plastic bag in her hand with, from what I could see through it since it was slightly transparent, an extra set of clothes. Just another sign of how prepared she was for this.

I managed to turn the faucet on and squeeze some soap on my hands before my staring became awkward. Well, more awkward than being stuck in the same room alone with the person you'd just ordered receive a slushie in the face.

Rachel didn't even seem to notice me at first until I shut off the sink. When she finally did, she froze, halfway through wiping the red mush off her face. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but for once in her damn life, it seemed that Rachel Berry didn't know what to say. I wasn't exactly sure what I could possibly say to fill the silence. Sorry? Yeah, that would ruin my HBIC look. Red goes with your outfit? Okay, I probably should, but my mouth was not cooperating.

Instead, I rushed past her as fast as I could, not bothering to dry my hands first. Before I got out of sight, Rachel gave me a weak smile.

On my way to my first class, I wondered how, after everything, she could smile at me.

* * *

My first class was spent marveling at just how odd the whole situation was. I had been brutalizing that girl since practically the first day we'd both walked through the McKinley front doors. Just a minute before, I had ordered Karofsky to slam her in the face with a cherry flavored mess. She was, in short, miserable both long-term and short-term because of me, but instead of yelling at me, hitting me, or even just ignoring me, she smiled. What the hell?

It took me a full five minutes to realize that the soft feeling I felt hitting me on the back of my head was a relentless pelting of bits of eraser. I turned my head enough that I could shoot a glare at Santana.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Santana asked. "I mean, I know that science makes me want to vomit on babies, but you're zoning out like a zombie. Usually you're busy making sure no one beats your grade."

So very eloquent of her. "I know I'll ace this next quiz, S. And nothing's wrong with me," I assured her.

"Like hell there isn't," she muttered. Cue another glare, the kind that could cut through stainless steel. That was a trait I hadn't, surprisingly, picked up from my father, but from my mom. She had that look patented.

"Whoa there, tigress," Santana reacted. She stayed quiet for a moment, listening to the drone of science.

_Each molecule is bonded together with ionic bonds…_

I tried to lift my own spirits by playing a game I'd play with Santana sometimes while bored in class. Take one letter and change it in a sentence to make it funnier.

_Each molecule is bonded together with ionic bongs…_

It didn't help. Santana had scooted over surreptitiously to the seat next to me to get a better look at the girl. Of course, she'd had to threaten the boy that sat there into moving to her previous one, but if making threats was an art, color Santana an artist.

"One minute you're fine, ordering slushie attacks like normal, and then you come back from the bathroom all lost-looking," Santana pressed. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, wondering why I had to pick an unnervingly perceptive best friend.

"San, if you don't shut up, I won't give you any of my English notes for the next week," I said through gritted teeth. Unfortunately, we both knew I was bluffing. Santana was smart, smarter than most people gave her credit for, but she just hated our English teacher, so she didn't take notes on principle. I gave her my notes so she could still pass, but if I stopped, Santana could just as easily take her own. Therefore, my bluff was empty.

"Bullshit, Fabray," Santana pointed out. I sighed. It had been worth a shot. "Look, you know I'm gonna figure out what this is, right? You can't hide anything from me."

I wished she was wrong.

* * *

That day I went home to my house with its white walls and high ceilings and carefully arranged paintings. Not one of them was even slightly inspired. Each one seemed as exact and precise as the rest of the house. No way would Russel Fabray bring any impressionist or abstract paintings into his house- no, only realist era works would suit his house.

I pass my dad, but he is on his cell phone in the middle of a heated business deal. He gives me a curt nod as a greeting and I return it. That's as far as our normal after school communication goes. I don't cross paths with my mom on my way to my room.

Once I get there, I shut the door behind me and drag my backpack to my desk, pulling out my homework. I didn't have anything planned with Santana or Brittany, so my only companion for the rest of the day would be homework.

* * *

Before going to sleep, I think about my day. I broke protocol inadvertently by running into Rachel in the bathroom. That wasn't how things were supposed to happen. I was supposed to harass her and then distance myself from her, at least recently, because I couldn't stand to feel the weight of what I was doing after. If I watched her face with that sad light for too long, I might just suffocate.

I'm sick of bearing the guilt. I'm tired of being the one everyone rightfully blames for the path of destruction I leave behind me.

And just like that, I make a decision.

Slowly, I would have to work up to change, change for the better.

* * *

**A/N: I have decided to continue this, clearly. I just can't get this story out of my head. Please review so I know how this is going or what to change or just anything really.**


	3. Chapter 3

For the next three days, not much changed. I went about my routine like usual- keep up appearances at school, go to Cheerios practice, and Glee practice. The only thing that was different was I stopped spending my spare time thinking about how to torture Rachel. In fact, I hadn't done a single thing to her in three days. I hadn't had slushies thrown at her, I hadn't made any demeaning comments, and I hadn't so much as said a word to her.

By the fourth day of this new routine of ignorance, Santana was catching on.

"You haven't caused the midget any misery, like, all week," she pointed out.

"That's not true. I ordered Karofsky to slushie her on Monday," I countered. Santana gave me a look, "that" look. The one where she narrowed her eyes at me, but not in a glare. Odd as it may sound, I was probably the only person in the school that would rather have Santana glaring at me than receive that look, because I knew what that look meant. It meant she was trying to get a good read on me.

I always knew that I would ruin everything I'd worked so hard for. I knew I'd get to the top, and just when I started enjoying the view, I'd come cascading down to the bottom. I thought I'd already been through that, with teenage pregnancy, but who knows? There's always farther to fall.

I knew I'd fall because it's always your biggest fear- not your biggest hope- that inevitably becomes reality. You psyche yourself out, bring your biggest fears into being. My biggest fear was instilled in me from a young age- failure. Failure to be everything I'd been trained to be. My biggest hope… well, that's as far from achievable as possible.

Thank God Santana can't read minds (yet). She'd beat me if she knew the kind of deep thoughts I was having. Then again, I'd be able to say that she's no different from me.

"Whatever, Fabray," Santana resigned to saying. From her resignation I drew that she had no idea what was going on with me yet, but that she hadn't given up. She would find out. I only hoped when she would that I would have the proper blackmail to keep her mouth shut.

* * *

As the bell rang signaling the end of the school day, I opened my locker, silently making plans in my head for how I could distract Santana over the weekend from trying to peer into my soul.

I was so lost in thought that I didn't even notice Rachel approaching me until I felt her tap me on the shoulder. I jumped about a hundred feet in the air.

"Holy shit!" I yelped. Rachel took a step back, obviously just as frightened as I was.

"Sorry!" she squeaked. I stared at her, mentally trying to lower my heart rate. It wasn't cooperating, and I knew that wasn't just because I'd been surprised. "I just wanted to say…" she trailed off.

"Yes?" I pushed, trying to sound aggravated.

"I wanted to point out that you haven't gone out of your way to do anything to harass me in four days, and that's actually a record for you," she said, her words tumbling out quickly.

Shit.

That's twice in one day that someone's pointed it out to me. I had planned on making this a slow adjustment, not quitting my favorite victim cold turkey. I tried to think fast about how I could possibly pull this off.

"Why, you miss me?" I cooed sarcastically. Rachel's eyebrows furrowed- success.

"Well, I just thought you should know that I noticed," she replied, turning heel and walking away from me.

Watching her retreating form, I realized that what I'd said had been much less caustic than I'd intended. It sounded much more like flirting.

Shit.

* * *

Over the weekend, surprisingly, Santana pretty much left me alone. Every so often I'd catch her staring at me, studying me to see if something was different, but that was it. What I _need_ is to find a way to keep Santana off my heels. What I _need_ is to find new ways to torture Rachel. Those words were familiar, and they'd never rung more true.

What I didn't need was to keep wondering what it was that could possibly make Finn break up with Rachel. Because, seriously, he was giving up on the best thing that had ever happened to him. I'd always known he wasn't the smartest, I even enjoyed that, but he was really pressing the envelope of stupidity on this one.

Santana and Brittany were in the "off" part of their on-again off-again relationship. The tension between them was enough to distract Santana from relentlessly picking at me for details on why I was acting differently. See, we have a sort of interesting relationship. She's a bitch, I'm a bitch, and neither one of us likes to open up, so for the most part, we just accept each other as is. But because we're so similar in that respect, we also know when something is bothering the other one. The friendship has always just worked for us.

The weekend was over before I could even blink, or so it felt like. All too soon, I was walking to my locker on Monday morning, trying to avoid the thoughts in my own head.

I saw Santana approaching, so I quickly veered off course, spinning around so fast that I slammed into someone walking the other direction.

"Whoa!" came the squeak from the person I'd run into. With a grunt, I heard them hit the ground.

"Sorry," I mumbled, reaching out my hand automatically to help up the person I'd plowed into, only to realize that I was looking down at none other than Rachel Berry.

I couldn't exactly retract my hand now, especially considering the smaller girl had already taken my proffered hand, so I pulled her up to a standing position. I was hyperaware with my senses- I could feel Rachel's hand in mine, her fingers gripping tightly to the back of my knuckles. I could also practically feel Santana's eyes boring into the back of my head.

"Thank you, Quinn," Rachel murmured, giving me the faintest of smiles. I didn't get it. I had thrown a slushie at her last week, followed by an awkward conversation on Friday, and this morning I'd plowed into her, but she still had the manners to thank me.

I cleared my throat, trying to relieve some of the tension I felt. "Sure," I replied with a shrug. I realized that I should snarl at her for not watching where she was going.

"I'll see you in math class," Rachel said before I could get my bitch on. I was left standing there nodding dumbly as she waltzed away to her first class. I knew I should move, but I was in a bit of a daze, so I stood frozen to the spot.

"Dios mio, chica," I heard from behind me, waking me up to reality. That was quickly followed by the bell ringing, warning the student body to hurry to their first period. I'd never been so happy to go to science class, even if it meant getting glared at by Santana the whole time and having to ignore her.

* * *

The moment I took one step into the lunchroom, my arm was grabbed by Santana. She started literally dragging me out of the lunchroom and to an empty classroom. Brittany was walking beside her, grinning.

"Are we kidnapping Q?" Brittany asked.

"Sh, not now, Britts," Santana hushed her. "Alright, Fabray, today's the day when I hold my breath and attempt to pull that enormous stick out of your ass," Santana said to me, shutting the classroom door behind the three of them.

"Shouldn't you be, like, a doctor to do that?" Brittany inquired, a look of puzzlement on her face.

"My dad's a doctor," Santana assured the other blonde.

"Oh, alright then," Brittany said absently.

"What the hell is going on?" I growled, my eyes drilling holes into Santana. The Latina girl ignored that, used to my glaring by now.

"Look, it's been an entire week since you've slushied the munchkin. You haven't even so much as drawn an insulting picture of her in that time either. You haven't outright insulted her, tried to take Finn just to spite her since he's single again, or come up with a conniving plan to humiliate her," Santana explained.

"So?" I asked defensively. "It's not like my life revolves around Berry." Such a lie.

"Yeah, and bacon's not your favorite food," Santana shot back sarcastically.

"But it is, San, I make it every time she sleeps over," Brittany corrected unnecessarily.

Santana was undeterred. "When you're bored or need to feel better about yourself, you just throw some embarrassing moments at the hobbit. You haven't done that in a week. Something's wrong."

"Is this an invention?" Brittany asked with excitement.

"Intervention," Santana corrected.

I looked between the two of them, trying desperately to come up with a way out of this. Lying was a must, of course, because I couldn't exactly break down and tell them that I was trying to be nicer to Rachel because I had been attracted to her since freshman year and the feelings had only started getting stronger.

"Look, I don't know what the big deal is. So I've grown tired of harassing Berry. So what? She'd getting kinda boring, anyway. Like, did you know she has a spare set of clothes in her locker just in case she gets slushied? She's expecting it," I said with a shrug.

Santana pursed her lips and put one hand on her hip. "So, what? Your new angle is to lull her into a false sense of security and then hit her with something big once she thinks her fine little ass is safe?"

Perfect. I didn't even need to come up with a sensible solution- Santana did it for me.

"Does this mean that I can start hugging Rachel?" Brittany asked.

"Sure, B. We all can be nicer to her," I responded. That was the plan. Being nicer to Rachel for a while would be nice, and it gave me time to think of another solution. One that preferably didn't end with Rachel in tears via humiliation by the Unholy Trinity.

"Hey now, just because Tubbers here decided to go all Mother Theresa on Manhands doesn't mean I'm up for that nice shit," Santana balked.

"Is this intervention done? Because I'd really like to go back to the cafeteria and indulge in cafeteria slop and pretend it's the carbs I've been craving," I said impatiently.

I sat across from Santana, pretending to be interested in her future plans for Rachel while really staring just over her shoulder at the diva herself.

My life is so screwed.

* * *

**A/N: So I've been going through a bout of writer's block when it comes to my other two ongoing fics as well as the other one I've promised to post... Argh, they will be up, sometime, I swear.**

**I do have a bit of a plan for where this is heading, but if anyone has any suggestions, I'd take them into consideration. Reviews? I love comments, questions, criticisms, anything.**


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